The ladies of St. Jamess! Theyre painted to the eyes;Their white it stays forever Their red it never dies:But Phillida, my Phillida! Her color comes and goes;It trembles to a lily, It wavers to a rose.

Whence comes solace? Not from seeing,What is doing, suffering, being;Not from noting Lifes conditions,Not from heeding Times monitions; But in cleaving to the Dream And in gazing at the Gleam Whereby gray things golden seem.